The views and opinions expressed here are my own and do not represent those of the Peace Corps or the U.S. Government
Showing posts with label Culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Culture. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Pileus

Pileus (n)- the umbrella shaped portion of a mushroom, the cap


The bus pulls off to the side of the road, into a turn-out watched by a few dilapidated shops. It’s raining softly and steadily, making a lulling cocoon of hammering in the bus. Before the wheels stop, bodies are flying, leaping, bolting from under the tin awnings of the shops toward the bus. Windows fly open and passengers lean out both sides, like a plow has cleared the central aisle. 

The runners have reached the bus and proffer their wares: great globulous orbs of white and off-white and brown as large as chickens, as large as hubcaps, as large as full-term woman swollen with child. 

It’s mushroom season. 

Hands fly out the windows as the mushrooms are vaulted up and up to meet them, perfect umbrellas against the rain. Crumpled bills are cast down in return, mostly to the sellers that are owed. Such urgency: the mushrooms are few and the bus will not tarry long. 

As more of the luminous hubcaps are transferred on board, an earthy, subterranean smell starts to glide through the humid bus along with a palpable air of satisfaction. 

One young seller has handed up his mushroom but has not been rained in cash as the bus starts to pull away. With eyes cast upwards, the rain on his stern face looks like tears as he yells to the woman with his wares. She doesn’t hear or pretends not to as the bus pulls into the road. He runs alongside, jumping through the door before it closes and battling down the aisle through smiling people cradling fungus in their laps like babies. The woman still doesn’t seem to notice him imploring her for the money until three other men start to yell. With an oscitant wave, she tosses the money in his direction and he caracoles back towards the door. 

The bus doesn’t even stop as he leaps out the door into the rain. 

He jogs back towards the coven shops and waits for the next bus to pass through.

10 November 2017

Friday, February 2, 2018

Exiguous

Exiguous (adj)- very small in size or amount

Behold! Exiguous thoughts from the past six months or so. Not so small as to qualify as "tweets" but brief in my terms.

1 July 2017- Ants are my harshest critics. They never fail to draw unnecessary attention to every crumb I drop and every spot I miss on my dishes.


8 July 2017- The head teacher of a school flat-out fell asleep in the middle of a meeting with me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more awkward. I just sat there and waited until he woke up.

12 July 2017- Church conference in the U.S.: glass buildings, folding chairs, powerpoint presentations, suits, maybe communal prayers over banquet lunches.
Church conference in Zambia: a crowd of people in garishly bright colours jumping and singing in a circle deep within the trees. 

7 September 2017- I greeted a young man in Lunda and he responded with "Nyinka mali" [Give me money, spoken without respect]. Between that and all the CHIN-DE-LI! CHIN-DE-LI!s I got yesterday on my bike ride from Kalene, I'm feeling very grateful for my village and the respect they give me. Even if they don't come to my meetings or don't really understand me, they call me by name.

14 September 2017- Mice, ants, and goats destroy everything I love: A two-year journey in Zambia

17 September 2017- Prescott gave me a pineapple while I was out walking. I walked back to my hut with it on my head, in my chitenge, having conversations along the way about carrying things on one's head. I am a Peace Corps volunteer. 

22 September 2017- I didn't realise how much I rely on my neighbors Nick and Sid for social contact. Them both not being here this past week has magnified the feeling of cultural loneliness. Even if I don't see them, knowing they are only a few (or okay, several) kilometres away is surprisingly comforting. The normal approaches to handling loneliness don't work here. 

29 September 2017- I completely underestimated the difference being healthy would make in my service. The past few weeks of actual normal gastrointestinal health meant I had energy, dietary creativity, and much more optimism. Today is another sick day. I decided not to push myself to run this morning and it sort of set a precedence for failures (if mild ones) all day today. 

23 October 2017- My last pair of Locals slippers from Hawaii broke yesterday. I super-glued them back together but the end of an era is nigh. 

26 October 2017- A thought: our modern conveniences are what allow us to live independent, solitary lives, if we so choose. It no longer takes a village to raise a child, so we no longer live in villages. 

A work/life balance here is difficult because in addition to working, I have to do all my own time-consuming chores. In Zambian families, chores are delegated and divided, allowing enough time for school, church, field work, rest, and play. An empty day for me is still remarkably full, just through the necessity of everyday life here. 

7 January 2018- Sick sick sick sick sucks sucks sucks sucks.
 Part of me is saying GET THE HECK OUT OF HERE. 
Another part is saying you have to see it through, what would come now except regret and disappointment? 
Another part is saying just run away to Solwezi for a few days, or South Africa or home for a few weeks. 
Another part is saying Owwwwwwww

Friday, January 26, 2018

Eleemosynary

Eleemosynary (adj)- charitable, depending on charity

I have this thought ruminating about aid and development and culture…I don’t mean to be controversial but I think it is a thought worth sharing from the cultural side of things. Zambian cultures are collectivist, with each individual gladly willing to give what they have to make another better. Families are widely extended, with grandparents raising grandchildren or aunts and uncles raising nieces and nephews as their own children. Communities are very close knit, with greetings and time spent together valued higher than our American sense of efficiency or productivity.

People are also incredibly generous. My host parents often bring me fresh bread or pineapple from their fields, or hot coals from their fire when I’m having trouble getting my brazier started. Relative strangers have brought me a pumpkin, eggs, and fetched water for me. It makes me feel I am always taken care of. These are gifts give under no pretense, under no expectation to be paid or repaid.
It goes in both directions.

While people give freely, they also ask freely. My host family has asked me for tea, sugar, washing powder, medicine, to borrow clothespins…it’s neighborly and I consider it the least I can do, especially considering how well they take care of me. I try to be on the proactive side too, bringing small gifts like sugar or cooking oil to my host parents.

The culture of asking and giving goes beyond the local village though. In general, people ask for things and expect you to give. I have been asked for my bicycle, books, drinking water, seeds, money, food, fish fingerlings, extra help with school, even my hair.  Some of these are easy to give. Some are also easy to understand from a misconception of how Peace Corps works or from the perception that as an American, I must have wealth to share.

 I think it goes deeper than that, though. One time in Lusaka, a small child came up to a Volunteer and asked (well, stated), “Give me 1 kwacha.” The PCV, in jest, said, “No, you give ME 1 kwacha.” And the child pulled a 1 kwacha coin out of his pocket and gave it to the Volunteer. He gave it back of course but I think that illustrates the culture of giving, as well as asking for what is needed.

I find myself wondering if development is somehow slowed by the asking and granting. If Zambians are comfortable asking for perceived needs to be met by the government, NGOs, and foreign allies, and these needs are met, what impetus is there to be self-sustaining? If people or agencies are giving freely (as PCVs are giving their time and effort, As NGOs give supplies, as the government gives subsidies), what harm is there in asking?

 I think there is a certain American quality of shame in asking for help. It’s not necessarily healthy and probably speaks volumes on our stigma about mental healthcare. I can’t help but think the sense of shame in asking for help (and also receiving it, especially without recompense) drives individuals to “pull themselves up by the bootstraps.” These tough ones shoulder on towards success even if it means significant personal sacrifice along the way. Conservative Americans have voiced concern about “handouts” to everyday people struggling to make ends meet; it’s no wonder people feel shame or failure for having to ask. On an international aid scale, we provide these same sorts of “handouts” to entire nations, in various forms.

I’m not casting an opinion on aid, just noting cultural differences in its reception. I was talking with my Department of Fisheries supervisor and he said, “We have given these people the tools to dig ponds, fish to fill them, and the knowledge to maintain them. The rest is up to their motivation.” I think in a parallel situation in the States, people involved in such programs might feel a duty, almost, to work hard, succeed in their farming efforts, and show the providers their work has not gone for naught. There is certainly that drive in some Zambians I have interacted with but there is also contentment, or relative comfort, in asking for more or for blaming shortcomings on the situation. E.g. “We are very poor here.” “Transport is an issue.” “You never know about the timing of these things.” “Mali kosi [No money].”

Motivation is often mentioned as an issue to Peace Corps’ style of development. I feel like this would not be the case at home. Maybe project failures would happen due to lack of communication, failure to fully follow through due to dedication to other goals, or misuse of resources, but not to motivational flaccidity.

On our site visits during training, our Lunda hosts asked us why/how Americans are successful. We didn’t really know how to respond. We said we work hard, are pushed by our parents and peers, and certainly don’t have it all figured out. Zambians surely work hard. Look at any field in Zambia, knowing that it is hand-tilled, weeded, sowed, and tended. Look at any house and see it is made of hand-shaped bricks, hand-fired and hand-stacked, then covered with a hand-thatched roof made from hand-harvested grass. Look at the children who might not have enough to eat at home don their carefully laundered uniforms and march off to school, so determined to learn.

Where does our “American spirit,” touted as irritating by other countries, come from? Maybe it’s that “American dream” on the ever out-of-reach horizon. Maybe it’s being surrounded by reminders of others’ success: reality TV, advertising, general ubiquity of media showing lifestyles of the rich and famous. The wealthy loom high and gaze down from their perches. Another thing we told our Lunda hosts is that we as Americans have just been plain lucky. I think that is just it, somehow.

Written 1 July 2017